Sonnet

I was cold.
You wove me a mantle of smoke.
I was thirsty.
You sent me a cloud in a crate.
You sent me a note.
You sent me a crate in a crate with a note saying bury this.
So I struck off with my shovel & never came back.
When the digging was over, I buried my shovel.
I buried it deeper.
I tendered my prospects to dusk.
Some men will make a grave out of anything.
Anything.
It depends on how desperate they get.
Times when a body could dig clean through the night.

Third Circle (The Gluttonous)

Along with the bitter, burnt onions,
glazed livers of cattle, chattel
of the slope, we ruminated the dawn

on that slope, blown wort rattling
its seed under barrelsome bellies
big with the promise of capital

for Fall. Dapple drops to her knees
for the very first time and lows,
blinks and thinks moo, it’s blurry,

the open, with its one-armed tree
waving welcome to the sensorium,
trunk sunk like a bolt in jade meadow.